


A Relatively Quiet Night

by write_away



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Relationship, Asexual Sherlock, Gen, M/M, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 02:40:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/485766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/write_away/pseuds/write_away
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's world hasn't changed with a proclamation, and oddly enough, neither has John's. It's just a relatively quiet night in 221B Baker Street.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Relatively Quiet Night

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is my first foray into Sherlock fanfiction. Please, let me know what you think! Enjoy!

It’s a relatively quiet night in 221B Baker Street when John asks the question. Sherlock is conducting an experiment involving cow spleen and tea (John doesn’t want to know). John is reading the comments on his blog.

  
“Have you ever been in a relationship, Sherlock?”

  
As soon as the words leave John’s mouth, he regrets them. It feels like the kind of inquiry that should lead to a complete halt in activity, a total awkward standstill.

  
Sherlock continues to poke the spleen. John continues to scroll down the blog.

  
“Until you?” Sherlock rips a tea bag open and lets the leaves spill over cow innards. “Not successfully. I lack understanding of most of the social conventions needed.”

  
John types out a response to one of Harry’s comments. “I wasn’t aware that we were in a relationship.”

  
“We are.” Sherlock does something to the spleen that makes John wrinkle his nose all the way across the flat.

  
“Don’t do that with a knife,” he chides. “And, just for the record, I have a girlfriend.”

  
“Hm, yes, but you’re arguing with her. Pass me a pen.” Sherlock holds his hand out expectantly, his eyes on the microscope. John sighs and retrieves a handful to carry over, temporarily abandoning the laptop on the couch. Sherlock speaks again as soon as the pens are in his palm. “It’s a Friday night and you’re home after leaving her home early this past Sunday - after spending the night, for that matter. You were meant to be back much later than you arrived, but you did come home, surely due to a fight. Also, you threw your phone at the wall when her ringtone went off the other day. So, you’re fighting. I do hope that your relationship isn’t in peril.” He doesn’t sound all too concerned as he removes his gaze from the spleen to smile at John. It’s genuine, though, so John just sighs.

  
He doesn’t bother to congratulate him on being right. “Sherlock,” he says seriously. “We are not – you and I – we have never – I don’t think we’ll ever –“

  
“Oh, relax, John.” Sherlock returns to the spleen, now prodding it with one pen out of the handful. “I never insinuated, nor thought, that we have or will have a sexual relationship. I’m wholly uninterested. The scissors?”

  
John locates them underneath the spleen. He dons a pair of gloves to retrieve them, all too aware of the futility of telling Sherlock to get them himself. “You’re celibate,” he concludes.

  
Sherlock takes the scissors and deposits them without use. “No.”

  
“No?”

  
“No.”

  
John leans against the counter, trying very hard to not remember that the spleen is exactly where he prepares dinner. “Then what _are_ your sexual preferences? Not that I care, I just… I’m curious.”

  
“I don’t have any. John, I said scissors!”

  
John rolls his eyes and passes the scissors again. “What does that mean, you don’t have any? You can’t possibly mean that you’re really only interested in your work.”

  
“I’m asexual.” Sherlock uses the scissors to open a pen and snap the ink cartridge. Blue stains his bare hands, gets in between his fingers, and drips onto the spleen. “Towel, John.”

  
John fetches a damp washcloth and hands it over. “You’ve been in a relationship before, though?”

  
“A few,” Sherlock admits. His fingers look no better than before he started cleaning them, his palms a dark blue, so John takes the towel, yanks the man away from the spleen (dear God, what on Earth is he doing to it?), and sits him down on the couch.

  
“Men? Women?” John asks as he cleans Sherlock’s hands gently. His sense of touch is strangely sensitive and he’ll be angry if John irritates it. “Skulls?”

  
Sherlock glares. “Yorick is just a companion,” he dismisses. “I’ve had relationships with both genders. Mind you, not many and a long time ago. They don’t tend to end well. I’m a difficult partner, as I’m sure you’re aware. Why are you so insistent on knowing my personal history? Isn’t it socially acceptable to keep this information private?”

  
“I’m just curious.” John sets the soiled cloth on the coffee table and shrugs. “How exactly is this –“ He gestures awkwardly between them, “a relationship? I’m interested in women, you’re not interested in anyone –”

  
“Sexually,” Sherlock sharply corrects. He folds his hands over his stomach and leans back into the cushions, his eyes shut, his curls bouncing on his forehead. “I don’t see why this is difficult for you to understand and accept. You are heterosexual, but clearly biromantic. I, on the other hand, have neither need nor desire for sex. However, I do occasionally form a strong attachment with underlying romantic feelings. I am not a virgin, contrary to popular belief, but I choose to only engage in such activities when my partner wishes. You and I work well together – you have no inclination towards sex with men and I have none at all. Our feelings toward one another are also quite obvious to even _Anderson_.” He opens his eyes for a brief glare. “Obviously, you are free to pursue women and meet your needs. I hold no grudges. After all, I _am_ committed to my work.”

  
“Except you scare off all my girlfriends, so fat lot of good your permission will do,” John points out. He settles into the couch, their shoulders brushing comfortably just like always.

  
Sherlock smirks. “I said you could pursue them, not keep them.”

  
John laughs shortly, then settles into a silent pensiveness. He can’t argue with any of Sherlock’s claims – they all seem to be true, now that he’s thought it over, had them laid out in front of him. Even his feelings toward Sherlock seem to fall not-so-neatly into that category called romantic. But then, when is anything in love “neat?” Sherlock, as usual, is right. “Okay, then,” John says. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand once, then releases him.

  
“Are we finished?” Sherlock begins to bounce in his place, impatient. “May I return to my experiment?” His manner hasn’t changed one bit after this conversation that should have stalled the world, should have stopped all activity.

  
John’s manner hasn’t changed either, strangely enough to even the man himself. “Sure, go on, go mutilate the cow.” He grabs his laptop before Sherlock can knock it down in his haste to the kitchen.

  
They spend the next few moments in their usual silence, usual dance of routine – John responds to emails, Sherlock is fascinated by the mess of ink and tea and spleen.

  
It’s a quiet night.

  
“John! Scissors! Now!”

  
Well, relatively.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


End file.
